


Horse Drawn Carriage

by tofumofo



Category: Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: AU, Bad Jokes, Flirting, M/M, but do they know they're flirting?, soccer socks, this looked a lot longer on my computer, whatever enjoy bitches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-12-11 17:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11719362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofumofo/pseuds/tofumofo
Summary: Simon told himself he went to this soccer game to support his friends, but all the cute sweaty boys didn't exactly hurt his motivation to be there.





	1. Good Luck Charm

            Twenty minutes into the soccer game, I’m still not entirely sure what motivated me to come. If I’m being honest, my gym coach telling us if we came to game we would get extra credit has a lot to do with my final decision. Which is bullshit, by the way. Where are the extra points for coming to debate tournaments? Or band competitions? But, I’ve skipped every state mandated mile and sit up-test for the whole semester, so I went ahead and took advantage of my gym teacher’s blind favoritism.

            I’d like to tell myself I’m here to be a good friend for Nick and all the other guys who play soccer and sit at my lunch table that I don’t really talk to. That would be a perfectly great reason to come to a game: moral support! I think what really sealed the deal was the text from Abby asking me if I wanted to go. I’ll just _pretend_ like I’m a good friend.

            The only thing I am absolutely sure of is how fucking weird high school sporting events are. They have pictures of the senior boys blown up on sticks, so it looks like their heads are balloons that are trying to get away. I wonder who gets to keep those—what PTA mom’s closet hides the giant heads of player’s past? And, why does this school spend money on professionally photographed pictures of the players when sometimes the water fountain water comes out with a brown tint from the rusted pipes? Sure, salmonella is fine. But, take away my 900 Gatorade bottles solely used to squirt water into football player’s mouths? I’d rather die.

            If I think about it, I am sure of two things: It’s fucking freezing (side note: metal bleachers—why?), and I’m wondering if the guys playing are warm or cold. Or, are they that awful in-between where your nose is red and dripping snot but somehow you’re still sweating? Sounds very sexy, I know. The vision of boogery noses almost ruins the beautiful sight of toned soccer legs. Almost. I find the strength to appreciate them still.

            Abby asked me to come because she wanted to talk to Nick. This would be fine except for the fact the only soccer player I’ll willingly strike up conversation with is Nick. I could stand on the outside of their flirtation bubble if I wanted, but I can only imagine he’d call her his good luck charm at some point, and I’d probably throw up.

            Before I have enough time to plan my exit conversation strategy, the game is over. I think we won. (How am I so bad at paying attention that I’m not sure if we won?) I’m swept into a crowd puddle that flows around a fence and into a sidewalk. It smells like sweat and proud mom perfume. Abby finds Nick and I’m left to suddenly be very interested in my phone, even though I’ve been checking it the whole time. I’m dentist office texting. AKA, I’m not texting at all. I just want you to think I am.

            I turn to the side and see a kindred spirit doing the same thing as me: Bram Greenfeld. He’s still got the uniform on, but he changed shoes to some slides instead. And, there’s just something hot about soccer socks. They knew it too, it’s in the freaking name of the game. Anyways, he definitely has more a right to look at his phone, considering he has been actually playing the sport instead of being the spectator, but it feels comforting to see that I’m not the only one using this lonesome trick of the trade. I politely ignore him (and his socks) until he looks up at me, and I look back, and then it feels weirder to not say anything than to say something.

            “Dentist texting?” is apparently the best thing I can come up with at the moment.

            “What?” Bram says.

            “It’s like, when you don’t have anything to do, so you aimlessly scroll through your phone so you can pretend to be busy. I do it when I’m waiting for the dentist.”

            “I was just telling my mom how the game went.”

            “Right. Right, right. Me too. That’s for sure what I’m doing too.” I say, and Bram actually smiles. “Okay, I have a question for you.”

            “Yeah?”

            “I’m fucking freezing. And I was wondering if you’re cold, or if you’re hot. Or… are you that in-between purgatory temperature? Because it’s cold out here but it’s hot when you run.” That just sounded like I called him hot. “Temperature hot.”

            “I’m pretty warm. See?” Bram takes his (warm) hand and puts it on my (cold) forearm. It’s kind of nice in a sweaty hand sort of way. He takes it back after a second or two and looks embarrassed.

            “Interesting. I will add that to my extensive research.” I say. He just kind of looks at me. “Can I tell you a secret? I’m not really big on this whole sports thing. If you haven’t caught onto that already. I’m just here because I get extra credit for gym class and Abby asked me to come with her to she could flirt with Nick.”

            “I see.”

            “But then I was afraid he would call her his good luck charm and so I walked over here.” I gesture to where we’re standing.  

            “Hey, we won. Maybe she is a good luck charm.”

            “What if I’m the good luck charm?” I challenge.

            “I don’t think you want that responsibility, Simon.” There’s something about the way he uses my name in a sentence that makes me nervous—like, I’m surprised he knows it even though we see each other at lunch every day. I need higher standards.

            “You’re so smart. I definitely don’t want it. Screw good luck.”

            “It’s really overrated these days.” He says so seriously that it’s funny. I see Abby bring Nick into a hug and sense that if I don’t pull her away now we’ll be here all night.

            “Well… I better go get my horse drawn carriage.” I try to joke but Bram just pulls a sympathetic smile. “That was so lame. I don’t know why I said that. I’m trying to be funny, but I don’t really know you. So, I don’t really know your vibe of jokes. Or, maybe I’m just not funny.”

            “It’s okay. I bet it’s a bitch to parallel park.”

            “Totally.” I sneak one last glance at the socks before choosing to turn around and not embarrass myself further with my bad sense of humor. Last minute I decide to yell, “I’ll see you in English!” and Bram gives a little wave. When I get to Abby, she raises her eyebrow. I reply with an honest, “Don’t even ask. I’m not sure what just happened either.


	2. Hash Browns

On Friday I walk into school in a particularly good mood. For starters, I went to McDonald’s and for some reason they gave me a hash brown when all I ordered was iced coffee. This probably means that someone didn’t get the hash brown they ordered, but I sure did. Sorry, guy whose day I just ruined. I’ve got a peppy song going in my headphones and I feel a little like a mix of Ferris Bueller and Tom from 500 Days of Summer, minus the dance numbers. I predict this school wouldn’t take too kindly to me doing a kick line down the hallway. Hey, who knows, it’s Friday and I got a free fucking hash brown. Anything is possible.

Even walking into English I feel on top. I didn’t exactly do the readings, but, you win some you lose some. 

“Bram.”

“Hi.” He looks up, also in his headphones. 

“I just thought it would be weird if I just sat behind you this whole time and didn’t say anything because we had a conversation yesterday.” 

“Right. Sure.” Not to say Bram has judgy eyes… but he definitely has judgy eyes. I feel like I’ve said the wrong thing already.

“Not to say that I wouldn’t say hi if we didn’t have a conversation yesterday. Because I still would. I’m nice.”

“Mhm.” Or maybe they’re not judgy eyes. They could just be the way his eyes look. Either way I’m not sure what they mean. If they mean anything.

“Sorry. I’m in a weirdly good mood today. I went to McDonalds and they gave me a hash brown and I didn’t even order one. That’s, like, the best luck I’ve had all year.”

“Are you kidding me? They left my hash brown out of my order this morning.”

“Are you serious?”

“No.” Joking eyes?

“I can’t tell with you. What you’re thinking.” I say, looking at the ground because maybe I’ve had enough of trying to read the eyes. And I feel a little dumb for believing that I took his hash brown. 

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking?” He says.

“No. You know what I mean.”

“Okay, then. I guess won’t tell you all my secrets.”

This is why I’m mildly afraid of all of Nick’s soccer friends. Well, Garrett seems pretty harmless. The most scandalous thing I’ve seen him do is trade a bag of Cheetos for a tuna sandwich—Seriously, though. What the fuck, Garrett? 

Bram seems like a different breed of soccer boy. He’s pretty much a genius, but I don’t think he would ever brag about it. He seems so serious, but maybe I’m just not in on the joke. Would it be weird if I wanted to be in on it? 

 

My teacher decides to ruin my mood by passing out the last test we took. I checked online and I already know I got a D. Which is bad. I know it’s bad. I read every spark notes there was on this book, which was a lot. Probably almost as much reading the book itself.

But the sparks notes failed me. And my iced coffee is leaving a gross looking wet ring on my desk. I’m realizing that it’s kind of giving me a stomach ache. Bram turns around and says my name.

“He accidentally gave me yours.” He says, holding my test out for me to grab. My test with a D on it. 

“That is so embarrassing. Oh my god.” Oh my god.

“It must be because we look so much alike.” He jokes, and I know he’s joking this time. I just feel too mortified to laugh about it. Or respond, really. “I can help you on the next one if you want.” He says. 

Something about him offering his "smart kid help" makes me angry even though I could use it.

“Ha ha ha.”

“I’m serious. We could study after school sometime. I make flashcards. They really help.” I can’t even comprehend the part about getting together after school because he’s mentioning flash cards as if I’ve never heard of them before. Like I’m that stupid. God. 

“I don’t want to do that.” I say, a little meaner than I wanted it to sound. He mutters something that sounds like “okay” and turns around in his seat. He doesn't say anything else the entire time and when he leaves his face is the straightest I've ever seen it, I think. So much for being in on the joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry these are so short i'm just writing when i feel like it and it might not go anywhere but thats life yo enjoy


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